


Easy Gets Some (or, How Easy Company Helps Trombley Come to Terms with His Issues)

by rum4life



Category: Band of Brothers, Generation Kill
Genre: Canon-typical language, Crossover, Gen, Homophobic Slurs, Pure Crack, Trombley POV, time-travel kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rum4life/pseuds/rum4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't happen with a flash of lightening or eerie sound effects. It just happens. Trombley is lying in his ranger grave in Iraq, blinks, and then he's suddenly <i>not</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Gets Some (or, How Easy Company Helps Trombley Come to Terms with His Issues)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Easy Gets Some (or, How Easy Company Helps Trombley Come to Terms with His Issues)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797884) by [HBOWarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HBOWarrior/pseuds/HBOWarrior)



> Pure, unadulterated crack.

It doesn't happen with a flash of lightening or eerie sound effects. It just happens. Trombley is lying in his ranger grave in Iraq, blinks, and then he's suddenly _not_.

"Get up Trombley!" a voice in his ear bellows. 

Trombley sucks in a breath of extreme, body-numbing shock as the sounds of bullets whistling past his ear and artillery in the distance hit him like a slap to the face.

"What the hell!" he yells as loud as he can over something exploding right above his head, at the top of the trench. "What the fuck? What the hell! _Sergeant Colbert_?!"

"Fire your weapon, Trombley!" the unfamiliar voice yells again into his ear. "Hit those Krauts with all you've got!"

"What the _fuck_ ," Trombley screams, but his body obeys the commanding voice. He grips the weird-ass rifle in his hands and pulls the trigger, aiming nowhere in particular. 

**

Trombley doesn't know where he is, or who the assholes around him in the faggot jumpsuits are, but they all spit and curse proper and he actually gets to shoot people here, so... that's cool. 

Some short guy with stupid hair tells him they're in Europe to fight Hitler, with a look on his face that Trombley has seen Lieutenant Fick or Gunny Wynn direct at Encino Man from time to time. Like Trombley's a fucking idiot or something. The short guy thumps him on the shoulder and says something about Marlene Dietrich expecting better of him as a soldier, like Trombley even knows who that is.

When Trombley asks him what his name is, he gives him the same _are you fucking retarded_ look, says, "What, you don't remember your pal, your friend, George Luz? Fucking replacements, Jeesus H."

Everyone calls the guy Luz. Just Luz. It takes Trombley a day, and then he's calling him Luz, too.

**

It's all just fucking retarded, because all of a sudden the enemy speaks German habudabi not Haji habudabi, everything is green, not sandy and brown, and Trombley almost shoots himself in the foot when he finds out they're paratroopers in the _Army_ , because fuck that shit. 

But even though it's stupid, it's kinda cool, too. He shoots a guy on his second day and he gets to see it all happen, like it's in slow motion, the enemy soldier's head exploding out from the force of Trombley's bullet-- like a grape squashed beneath a boot heel. It makes his dick fucking hard. 

Their leader ain't bad, either. His name is Lieutenant Winters, and his face is always dirty. He limps because apparently he took a bullet frag to the ankle but refused to get a cas-evac, so he's all right in Trombley's books. 

Winters runs into battle like a superhero. He reminds Trombley a bit of Sergeant Colbert, because he's always so calm, even under enemy fire.

Then Trombley finds out he's a fucking faggot, and then it all goes to hell.

**

He can't take his eyes off Lieutenant Winters, who is standing next to Captain Nixon on the side of the narrow cobblestone street in Holland or whatever. Nixon always seems to appear out of nowhere looking like a stray cat dragged out of the river, staring up at Winters like he wants to suck his dick right in front of all his men. They spend what seems like hours just gazing into each other's eyes. 

It makes him wanna puke.

Trombley nudges the guy next to him in the ribs. "Since when did the Corps start letting in fucking faggots?" he asks, ignoring the weird feeling in his stomach, a reminder that he's said the same words somewhere else. Somewhere a world away.

The guy next to him turns out to be some dude named Babe. Another replacement, like Trombley apparently is. Trombley doesn't know what the hell he himself is, really, but Babe is just as wet behind the ears as Trombley had felt his first day, and it makes him feel a little better about not knowing what the fuck is going on half the time. 

Babe squints his eyes at him. "Huh?" he says, scratching at his red hair. (It shines in the sun. It's kinda cool but also weird, because Pop always said gingers were cursed by the Devil. It's confusing, because Babe seems like an okay guy.) "Corps? Faggots?"

Ah, shit. Trombley forgot again. He's not in the Corps anymore, not in Iraq; he's not in Sergeant Colbert's Humvee, his SAW a comforting weight in his lap. Reporter ain't sat like a heavy sack of horseshit next to him, looking like he just shot his load into the sweetest, tightest pussy of his life every time they get shot at. 

He's not sat behind Corporal Person anymore, who may act like a faggot half the time, but who's actually kinda okay, too.

Fuck. Trombley still doesn't know how to feel about all this. 

Babe still looks confused. Trombley says, "You know, gays? In the Army?" He nods to where Captain Nixon is practically on his knees asking Winters to fuck his face. _God,_ , they are so gay. 

Babe laughs, but he sounds uncomfortable, like he's pissed himself and doesn't want anyone to know. "Cap'n Nixon? Win'ers?" (His accent is _so weird._ ) "Trombley, I don't think they're, ya know, like that. Bent. 'Sides, even if they were, don't mean they ain't good fuckin' officers, right?"

Babe has a point, because even though Trombley's having a hard time even looking at Winters right now, he's still the best officer next to LT that Trombley's ever seen-- if anything, he's even more reckless, more eager to do shit himself than cause his men harm. It's enough to make a guy think. Babe might be onto something.

But then this world's version of Doc Bryan comes over, all puppy dog eyes and touching Babe unnecessarily. Babe looks like a block of ice melting under Doc Roe's fingers, and Trombley has never felt more betrayed in his _life_.

**

Everywhere he looks, someone's looking at someone like they're ready to pull down their pants and bend at the waist, spread their ass cheeks for some good old-fashioned sodomy. Even _Luz_ gets all soft and strange around Joe Toye, like that angry weird motherfucker has a dick that can cure cancer. Trombley's gonna go crazy, and not just because the forest they're stuck in is cold and miserable and snow gets into his paper-thin uniform and melts in uncomfortable places. 

(It's worse than the sand, and the sand in Iraq was some nasty shit.)

Anyways, Trombley finds himself missing First Recon so much that the cold is just a secondary annoyance. First Recon was made up of hardcore, badass, _straight_ motherfuckers. He didn't have to worry about accidentally wandering into a random foxhole and interrupting a fucking gay threesome, like when he'd gone to mooch a cigarette off Penkala that one time. 

Trombley spends a lot of his time in the Bastogne forest sulking in his foxhole, shivering and trying not to think about rat-fucked MRE's or dog-eared copies of _Juggs_ or singing songs with Person and Reporter and (a reluctant) Sergeant Colbert. 

**

It takes a while, a lot of shivering in silence, before he starts to attach names to the guys around him. They turn out to be actually kinda cool, for Army scum, anyway. They're brave, and some are funny, and they all laugh and whoop together in between mortar attacks. 

He slowly starts to understand Easy Company inside-jokes, even makes some of his own. One day they're all gathered around with tin cups of rationed stew that tastes like ass, and he doesn't remember what he said but everyone _laughs_ , and even ol' Gonorrhea slaps his shoulder with a grin on his face. It shocks him so much he almost drops his cup, because back home everyone laughed _at_ him, muttering shit about him behind his back. Not with him.

Not like that shit ever bothered him, but... this is different. Winters isn't around much anymore, just snuggles up with Captain Nixon in his officer tent, but one day he passes Trombley's foxhole and leans down to chat with him. 

Winters says he's a good shot, a good soldier. "You're doing great, son," he says, smiling warmly down at him, even though his face is blue with cold. "Keep up the good work." 

Trombley watches him shuffle away through the powdery snow and swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. 

**

It all turns out to be fucking stupid and a waste of time because one day the trees light up with enemy arty, loud and bright like the Fourth of July. He watches Muck and Skip and Penkala disappear beneath fire and ash in front of his eyes, watches Toye and Gonorrhea dragged off, one-legged and moaning. He barely makes it himself, nearly gets beheaded by a falling tree. His dick isn't hard and he isn't laughing. 

Instead, after it's all over, he makes sure no one's around before crying like a pussy in his foxhole. Babe catches him, but he doesn't say anything, just sits next to him. He sounds like he's crying, too, sobs muffled in his thin-ass jacket. They don't talk. They're not snuggling, not really, but they're close enough that Trombley feels a little less cold, a little less alone. He falls asleep listening to Babe's hitched breaths and watery sniffs.

**

He gets over it really fucking fast, because he has to. They rush the small snow-covered nearby town a few days later, and he's shooting motherfuckers like it's _cool_. 

He shouts, "Yeah, get some!" when they nail the sniper in the roof, and next to him Leibgott barks out a laugh and mutters, "Fuckin' idiot," but then mutters _get some_ under his breath as well, copying him. They get a new CO, the scary guy from Dog Company, who comes running through the smoke like something out of Die Hard. It's _awesome_. Trombley shoots at _least_ five Krauts, watches them go down in a spray of blood, staining the snow with red. 

His heart is still beating triple-fast, even when it's all over and they gather to take pictures. Luz slings his arm roughly around his shoulders and yells, "You're a weird guy, Trombley, but Jesus Christ, you're a damn good shot!" and everyone nearby cheers. 

Trombley feels something stir in his stomach. He grins and receives a few slaps on the back and thinks that maybe it's happiness. 

He doesn't even feel that knee-jerk reaction of wanting to puke when he sees their new CO talking with Lip in the church, looking like he's ready to get his dick out for Lip to suck. Trombley just looks away, leans back, and listens to the music. He's warm for the first time in a month. With a start, he realizes that he hasn't thought of First Recon or the Corps in days.

**

Some guy he doesn't recognize walks up to their truck, looking clean and happy until Liebgott sneers at him. The new guy is named Webster, and he apparently isn't actually new but everyone's just treating him that way because he pussied out in some hospital after getting a hit in the leg. 

Trombley sneers along with everyone else, because he doesn't know Webster, but Trombley's been with these guys through fucking _Bastogne_ , which makes him a fucking _vet_ compared to this fresh-faced loser. Liebgott slings his arm around Trombley in a totally not gay way, just in a rubbing-it-in-Webster's-stupid-face way, so Trombley lets him do it.

It's not till later that he watches at them snarl at each other from their bunks and feels a sinking feeling in his gut. His suspicions are confirmed when Webster gets Liebgott out of some retarded mission and Liebgott looks at Webster like he wants to kiss him and-- seriously, Trombley is _so fucking done with this gay-ass fucking company._

**

Lip gets pneumonia and Speirs, the guy Trombley used to _look up to_ because he was a badass up there with fucking Rambo and John Mcclane, basically falls over his own feet fretting over sick Lip, and it's just the fucking church all over again. By now, Trombley is so numbed that he just sighs to himself and picks up the shit Luz needs his help moving to HQ. 

After solid _months_ of this forced faggotry-immersion, it gets to a point where Trombley doesn't even blink when Liebgott and Webster get in another one of their arguments that has everyone rolling their eyes into the backs of their heads. One of those arguments that has both Liebgott and Webster panting inches away from each other's faces like bitches in heat. Which, ugh. But fuckin' whatever. 

He isn't even that bothered when Babe runs from his side to attach himself to Doc Roe, who always looks surprised and too happy when it happens. He just shrugs when Luz touches Toye's ass one too many times for it to be just casual grab-ass.

He sighs and goes back to cleaning his rifle, even when Captain Nixon and Winters drape themselves over each other right in front of him. They think they're so fucking subtle. Trombley's rifle is shined to such perfection that he can see them making goo-goo eyes at each other in its reflection, but he just moves on to sharpening his bayonet because he's grown too tired to care about anything else.

**

The Eagle's Nest is _too fucking cool for words._ He actually gets to kick _Hitler._ Fucking _Hitler_ , dude. Everyone drinks themselves stupid and Trombley sits with Shifty and Grant and looks out at the mountains. The sun is hitting them just right, and he's drowsy and warm and clean. Things turned out all right, he thinks. 

"You know," he says, half to himself, "You guys are okay for a bunch of faggots."

Shifty laughs and kicks him lightly. "You're always callin' us that, Trombley," he says in his soft, Southern drawl. "I declare, by now even _you_ ain't soundin' like you consider it an insult no more."

Trombley looks up at the fluffy white clouds. He thinks he sees a dog in one of them. It's cool. "Fuck you, Shifty," he answers automatically, but there's a warm feeling in his chest as Shifty and Grant giggle and steal the champagne bottle out of his hand. 

**

There's no music, or flash of lightening. One moment Trombley's playing cards with a few of the boys on Hitler's dining table, drunk enough that the room spins pleasantly, and then the next moment he's stone cold sober and Sergeant Colbert's yelling at him to wake up.

He blinks furiously, scrubs at his eyes, but they're gone. Easy Company is gone, and First Recon is back. The snow-peaked Alps have transformed back into endless miles of sand. 

The constant radio chatter sounds like the buzz of flies in his ears. He keeps expecting to hear Shifty's southern drawl, Babe's harsh Philly accent, Winters' gentle words spoken out the side of a crooked smile. Instead, he gets Person ranting about where Captain America misplaced his nuts and Reporter moaning like a porn star under enemy fire.

He's so quiet for the rest of the next few days, hand gripped tightly around his SAW and mind still stuck in the past, that he hears Reporter whisper about him to Sergeant Colbert. He sits in his ranger grave, listening to voices that have grown unfamiliar. He keeps looking to his right for red hair and freckles. There's just sand, and MOPP suits, and more sand. He doesn't know what to fucking do anymore.

**

"This isn't really a justifiable war, is it?" Reporter says one day when they're rolling through another town that smells like dead Haji and human shit. "I mean, I get that Sadaam technically started it. Sort of. But those soldiers, the ones from Syria, they weren't here until... uh, I mean..."

Trombley glances at Reporter. He's sweating and shifty-eyed, like he knows he's being a fucking asshole.

Colbert and Person look like they're ignoring him. Reporter keeps talking anyway.

"...Okay, uh, okay, for instance, World War Two," Reporter stammers, sounding like he's regretting ever opening his mouth. "Take, take that for example. That wasn't an invasion like this, they had- look, I mean. Normandy. Bastogne."

Trombley feels like he's been hit in the chest by a mortar, because for once, he knows what the fuck Reporter is talking about. It _hurts_ , like, he ain't a pussy, but it physically _hurts_ , and suddenly he's talking, can't seem to stop, because he has no idea if it was real or not, but Bastogne still feels so recent that if he closes his eyes, he can transport himself back there: miserable and frozen and laughing hysterically at mortar fire.

"The guys who fought in Bastogne were fucking badasses," he hears himself say.

Reporter looks at him in complete terror.

In the front seat, Sergeant Colbert shifts so he can look at Trombley in the rear view mirror. His eyes are startlingly blue.

Trombley can't stop. "Like, they didn't even have fucking winter jackets, you know? And they had like, _dead dog_ to eat. And so many of them died. But they still kept fighting."

Person is craning his neck and moving uncomfortably in the seat in front of him, trying to look at Trombley in the side mirror and watch the road at the same time. His eyes are _huge_.

"Doesn't even matter that they were all fucking Army faggots," Trombley mutters, and fuck, he's gonna start crying if he doesn't stop thinking about it, and there's _no way_ he's gonna do that here, without Babe sitting silently next to him, huddled for warmth. He feels sick.

Reporter stammers, "Uh. Y-yeah, they really were. You know, there was an Army company that was on the front lines practically the entire war, more than any other military company. All the way from D-Day to the Eagle's Nest."

"Easy Company," Trombley mutters. For a second, the sun above them looks exactly like it had the day they stormed Hitler's mansion. He blinks to make it stop. 

Reporter chokes. "I- yeah, Easy Company. I, uh, didn't know you liked history, Trombley."

Trombley shrugs. "Whatever." 

He thinks about Luz poking him in the side and doing stupid impressions while glancing unsubtly at Toye, Liebgott wrestling Webster and looking too much at Webster's mouth while doing so. And about how Winters would stroke a hand down Nixon's arm and then turn around and fucking run ahead to kill half a company of Krauts all by himself. And Babe smiling like he had the whole world on a string as he talked to Doc Roe. 

"Whatever," Trombley says again. 

Sergeant Colbert keeps peeking at him in the mirror, and nobody talks for the next twenty minutes.

**

The LT is talking with Brad nearby Trombley's grave. He looks tired, as usual, but he's also more relaxed than usual, leaned up against their Humvee. 

Brad looms over him. He's nodding, listening, but Trombley notices something. 

He's staring at the LT's lips.

Trombley has an extremely violent flashback to Winters and Nixon, the way Winters would relax whenever Nixon and his flask and his stupid drawl would appear magically by his side, wherever they were. The way they'd look at each other and speak without saying a word. The way they'd glance down at each other's mouths, like they couldn't help it.

He watches, mouth open, realization dawning, as the LT stares up with soft Bambi eyes. The LT's body sways closer to Sergeant Colbert's, and Sergeant Colbert shifts so he's an inch closer, all while they discuss ROE and routes and dispersion.

It's so gay that Trombley can swear he suddenly smells ass-stew, crisp forest air. The bile he tastes in his mouth at the sight is so familiar it makes him choke; it's a taste he had in his mouth all through those long months as a member of Gay Company, among those faggots he somehow learned to think of as _family_.

He takes one last long look at the two of them, slanted together against the battered and bullet-ridden side of the Humvee, sighs, and settles down to sleep. 

He dreams a familiar dream of a beautiful world, a world free of faggots-- but when he wakes up, he doesn't feel the satisfaction the dream usually brings. 

He shrugs, climbs out of his grave, and steals Reporter's ration of water to brush his teeth.


End file.
